Roots and Wings

In a quiet village nestled between rolling hills and whispering pines, there stood a modest house built from stone and memory. Its walls had witnessed laughter, storms, and the gentle creak of time passing. This was the home of Arun and Meera, a couple bound by love, hardship, and an unwavering commitment to the soil beneath their feet.

Arun was a farmer, like his father before him. His hands bore the calluses of decades spent tilling earth, planting seeds, and harvesting life. Meera, graceful and steady, ran the household with warmth and quiet strength. Together, they raised three children—Aarav, Lila, and Rohan—with dreams far beyond the village.

The children grew up watching their parents rise before the sun and rest only when the stars blinked to life. They learned discipline not through scolding, but by example. They learned love not through gifts, but through gestures—a hot meal after a long day, a mended shirt, a quiet hand on the shoulder when words failed.

Aarav, the eldest, was the thinker. As a boy, he would sit under the old banyan tree reading books he borrowed from the school teacher’s tiny library. Lila, bold and curious, questioned everything—from why the monsoon came late to why her mother never went to school. Rohan, the youngest, was the dreamer. He loved painting skies in bright orange and purple, believing the world could be more than what he saw.

Arun and Meera watched their children grow with a mix of pride and fear. Pride in their children’s potential. Fear of the distance that dreams often bring.

When Aarav received a scholarship to a university in the city, the family held a small celebration. The neighbors came, bringing sweets and stories of their own sons who had gone far. Meera smiled through the gathering, but when the house emptied, she stood at the doorway, holding Aarav's worn satchel, tears silently tracing her cheeks.

“Will he return?” she whispered to Arun, who stood beside her.

Arun didn’t answer right away. He looked out at the darkening fields and said, “We gave him roots, Meera. Now we must give him wings.”

Years passed. Aarav became an engineer, then a project manager, building bridges in cities his parents had never seen. Lila went on to become a teacher, returning often to start literacy programs for the village women. Rohan studied art and left for a faraway country, where the skies were the canvas of his imagination.

They came back, sometimes. On holidays. For weddings. For funerals. Each time, they found the village smaller than they remembered, and their parents a little older, a little quieter.

Arun’s hair turned white. Meera’s steps slowed. The fields they once plowed now lay still more often than not. Yet their hearts remained full. They had given their children the tools to build lives their parents could only dream of. They had planted deep roots—of values, of resilience, of love.

One summer, all three children returned together for the village festival. The house, once filled with the silence of routine, buzzed again with laughter, footsteps, and stories.

Rohan set up an easel under the banyan tree, painting the house as it looked in his childhood. Lila read stories to village children in the courtyard. Aarav sat with Arun on the porch, watching the sky.

“You built all this,” Aarav said softly. “Not just the house. Us.”

Arun smiled, his eyes tired but bright. “We planted seeds. You chose how to grow.”

That night, around a small fire, the family shared memories—of stormy harvests, first bicycles, broken toys, and healed hearts. Meera passed around warm rotis, and for a moment, time folded into itself. It didn’t matter who had gone how far. In that moment, they were home.

Later, Lila asked her mother, “Did you ever wish for more?”

Meera looked at her, the firelight dancing in her eyes. “I wished for what I never had—choice. We gave that to you. That is more than enough.”

When the children left again, it was with promises they intended to keep—more frequent visits, support for the farm, and dreams of turning the old house into a community center.

Arun and Meera stood at the gate, watching the car disappear down the dusty road.

“They’ll be alright,” Meera said.

“They already are,” Arun replied.

And in the stillness that followed, a soft breeze rustled the leaves of the banyan tree. Birds flew overhead, soaring toward the open sky. The house stood steady, rooted in love, yet forever part of the journey that lifted their children from soil to sky.